Time Passes So Swiftly
by clokkerfoot
Summary: John and Sherlock's life together, starting at the first kiss, and ending at the last.
1. First Kiss

John Watson had been living with Sherlock Holmes for two months now, and their trust in one another was binding. Sherlock was always off on cases, closely followed by John, who came along for the rush of adrenaline, and to give a medical opinion when needed.

John had grown rather attached to the mysterious man, and had often wondered what his life would be like if he hadn't met him.

Dull, safe, sad, happy, depressing... the negatives and positives shot backwards and forwards through John's head.

Sherlock was watching John with a curious expression on his face, his blue-green eyes glistening in the sunlight streaming in through the window. The dust that sparkled somewhat in the beam of light floated around Sherlock, like an aura of diamonds.

And he looked gorgeous.

Wait, what?

John's thoughts had betrayed him again, the confirmed platonic relationship he had with Sherlock breaking down in his head. Platonic, he thought firmly, as he tore his gaze away from Sherlock, trying to concentrate on the television. Crap telly on, as per usual. Anything that didn't involve Sherlock was boring.

John chided his thoughts, and tried to make his mind go blank. Don't think about Sherlock, he thought, don't think about that gorgeous, single, inviting man sat across the room from you.

John groaned audibly, and slumped on the sofa, sighing as he leant backwards. Sherlock's head flicked towards John, and he gave him a calculating, yet oddly warm, look of confusion. John felt a tingling warmth in his stomach as he met Sherlock's eyes, smiling gently at him. Sherlock didn't really smile back, but his eyes sparkled, and the corners of his mouth turned up oh-so-slightly.

John felt a sudden impulse crash into his head, and he lifted himself up off the sofa, and walked slowly over to Sherlock. He looked confused, but happy all the same. John stood in front of him, and leant down slightly, before pressing his lips softly to Sherlock's.

Sherlock seemed surprised for a moment, and didn't respond to John's rush of affection, before getting to grips with the situation, and kissing John back.

Sherlock stood up slowly, still kissing John, and slipped his arms around the other man's waist, smiling into the kiss. He held John close to him, breathing in his heavenly scent, trying to imprint it on his senses permanently.

They stood there for several minutes, wrapped around each other, kissing deeper and deeper with every passing second. John liked this. He liked it a lot. Just plain old kissing, nothing more.

Sherlock pressed himself harder and harder into John, moaning quietly. John mumbled something unintelligible against Sherlock's lips, and then his phone buzzed.

He broke away from Sherlock, leaving him looking shocked and put-out. He picked up his phone, and groaned as he realised the text was from Mycroft.

He opened the text, and read it with reluctance.

_At last. How long I have waited for this. -MH_


	2. Getting To Know Each Other

John and Sherlock were now an official couple.

At first, the Scotland Yarders had mocked them, laughed at them, tricked them, and just been cruel in general. But now they seemed to accept the fact that John loved Sherlock, and that Sherlock loved him right back. Just the odd little thing could show that: a quick kiss at a crime scene, a small but loving hug, holding hands when they were standing still, that sort of thing.

Donovan and Anderson were still horrible to Sherlock, naturally, but he always shot back with retorts that would've made his parents proud. John would try to stop the constant quarrelling between the three of them, and upon failure, he would join in, backing up Sherlock.

The hardest thing they had to do was telling John's parents. John was expecting fury, despair and outright shock, but they were enthusiastic, and seemed very pleased. Two homosexual children, and they couldn't be happier. John had laughed out loud when this thought shot through his head, and Sherlock had looked at him, confused. John had gripped his hand tightly, and chuckled into his shoulder. Sherlock still looked confused, but smiled all the same, and planted a kiss onto John's head.

The next hardest thing they had to do was telling _Sherlock's_ parents. John already suspected that Mycroft was getting off with Lestrade, so this would be a shock to his parents. Another family with two homosexual children. Sherlock and John's families were more alike than John had thought. Sherlock just stood up straight as he told his parents, refusing to meet their eyes. John looked at them, and they looked downright dissapointed, and annoyed. John, naturally, got irritated, and demanded to know what their problem was. Sherlock hastily pulled John out of the house, and took him back to Baker Street.

They hadn't had sex yet. John wanted to wait. He wanted to really get to know Sherlock first. He wanted there to be an un-breakable bond, and then they would have sex.

After they told their parents, John decided it was time. After Sherlock took John back to Baker Street, John pounced on him, kissing and nibbling and biting and licking him. Sherlock seemed overwhelmed, but carried the enthusiastic John to their bedroom, and basically ravished the hell out of him.

That night was bloody amazing, John had told Sherlock, and they had a conversation about it, and somehow ended up in bed again. Sherlock seemed very pleased about all the sex, and intimacy, and refused to let John go anywhere without a quick snog. John, of course, obliged happily.

John felt he really knew Sherlock properly now, and he also knew that he loved him.


	3. Proposal

John hadn't been expecting Sherlock to propose to him, so when he did, it was a huge shock, and a great pleasure.

They were in Speedy's cafe. John had just ordered his breakfast, a bacon and sausage roll, and Sherlock was watching him, curiously alert. Sherlock, of course, hadn't ordered a thing, not even a drink, but he seemed extremely interested in John.

John was sat, tapping his fingers on the scratched, worn-down wooden table, waiting patiently. Sherlock was holding a pen in his hand, mumbling various words to himself as he gazed at John.

John looked up, and into Sherlock's eyes. They were an amazing mixture between blue and green, and whenever John saw them, they seemed to change. Once, they'd been something close to brown, then the next day they'd been nearly completely blue. Maybe it depended on the light, or where they were, John thought to himself. Whatever colour they were, John decided, they were beautiful. Always sparkling. Always looking amazing.

John's trail of Sherlock-related thoughts was interrupted when the waiter came over and placed a sandwich with bacon hanging out of it in front of John. The bacon looked under-cooked, and very unappealing. John cringed, and sat back in his chair, ignoring the food.

He just looked at Sherlock. Examined his perfect, perfect face. Gazed at the high, defined cheekbones that John loved to kiss softly. He glanced once at Sherlock's perfect, defined, plump lips, then allowed his eyes to roam over his face, taking in all the curves and bumps, burning the beautiful face into his memory forever. He finally met Sherlock's eyes, and their gazes locked. John's blue-grey, tired eyes, boring into Sherlock's blue-green, shining ones.

Sherlock looked very odd, a shrewd, calculating expression on his face that he usually saved for people he didn't know, as he deduced everything about them, learning their occupation from their left hand, or their sexual life from their clothes, or something along those lines. John sighed contentedly, and leant forward across the table, pressing his lips lightly to Sherlock's.

Sherlock responded happily for a moment, then pulled away. John looked at him, confused, and sat back in his chair, frowning slightly. Sherlock seemed to fight with something inside himself, then pushed his chair away from the table, fumbling in his coat pocket. John just watched.

Sherlock knelt down on one knee. A huge, genuine smile was spread across his face, and he held out a small, velvety box. John gasped audibly, and a smile mirroring Sherlock's appeared on his lips.

Sherlock flipped open the small, black box, to reveal a shining silver band. From what John could see, it had I Love You written on it, in black, indented letters.

Sherlock smiled up at John, said the magic words in his deep voice, and held the box up towards John. Speedy's had gone silent; everyone was watching John. John felt the heat rising in his neck, and he whispered one, simple word. One simple word that would change his life forever.

_Yes._

Sherlock let out a joyous shout, and flung his arms around John, planting a wet kiss on his lips, holding him tight. John kissed him back, and allowed the silver ring to be pushed onto his finger while he kissed Sherlock, his fiancé, until he felt dizzy.

Everyone watching had erupted into cheers, and they all rushed over to congratulate the engaged couple, patting Sherlock on the back, and pulling John into tight hugs.

John only had eyes for Sherlock. It was as if the world had just vanished. It was just him and Sherlock. John and his best friend. John and his lover. John and his fiancé.


	4. Marriage

Sherlock was stood at the front of the church, fiddling with the corner of his tuxedo nervously. He could hear the excited mutterings of the crowd behind him, as they settled into their seats. He was staring, glassy-eyed at the wall in front of him.

The music started. A low, thrumming tune. Sherlock turned to his left, and stood parallel to the aisle, waiting. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, various people walk up the red-carpeted aisle. Molly, escorted by Lestrade; Donovan, escorted by Anderson; and , escorted by Angelo, who owned Speedy's cafe.

All three of the grinning pairs walked up the aisle, and then the tempo and beat of the music changed, to a very familiar bridal march. Sherlock sniggered; John wasn't a bride. But he turned himself slightly away from the aisle, but still keeping his eyes trained down it.

He saw John appear, escorted by Mycroft, who looked oddly pleased, but awkward. So, Mycroft had agreed to give John away. Sherlock never thought he would. John was wearing a tuxedo that matched Sherlock's own, but with a different coloured flower adorning the pocket. Sherlock smiled at John, their eyes locking firmly. John's pace of walking seemed to increase somewhat, but Mycroft held him back, gripping his arm tightly. John looked disappointed, but kept in rhythm with Mycroft's slow, easy steps.

After what felt like an eternity, John reached Sherlock. Mycroft skirted off to the side, muttering words of encouragement in Sherlock's ear. But Sherlock wasn't really listening. He was gazing at John, love and affection burning through his chest. He resisted against throwing himself onto John right then, and kissing the hell out of him. He chuckled, and turning in time with John, to face the man dressed in black, who was stood in front of them.

The words were said, John and Sherlock said their vows, and then said their I do's. They faced each other. The vicar said the words that bound them together, and Sherlock flung himself onto John, kissing him deeply, and passionately. Mycroft uttered a noise that was a cross between a snort of disgust and a chuckle of pleasure. Sherlock gripped John tightly to him, clutching his cheeks, attacking his lips.

He could have, and would have, kept kissing John forever, had the crowd not started chuckling, and muttering. Sherlock broke away from John, and opened his eyes. John's eyes were half-open, and glassy. He was breathing deeply, staring dreamily at Sherlock. He laughed softly, and stepped away from John, keeping hold of one of his hands.

They walked down the aisle together, hand in hand, followed by Mycroft, and the three bridesmaids and the three grooms. Their shoulders kept brushing together, and they exited the church together, greeted by a storm of rice, which fell upon their heads, splattering their pristine black tuxedos with specks of white.

They'd decided not to have a reception, going against tradition, and they climbed into the awaiting car, which set off swiftly, headed towards the airport, where Sherlock and John, the newly-weds, would start their two-week honeymoon.


	5. Honeymoon

John and Sherlock's honeymoon was very traditional. Whisked away to a remote island, left alone, cut off from the rest of the world. Mycroft had a very large, beautiful beach house on the island, which he graciously lent out to the newlyweds.

The island was beautiful. Lightly populated, but with enough people to keep the island running. Amazing, huge sandy beaches running across the sides of it, backed by green trees, and an amazing array of plant life. John just wanted to stay in the trees, overlooking the clear blue sea for the course of their honeymoon.

However, Sherlock occupied an awful lot of John's time, and most of this time was spent in a bed, or in the sea. Kissing and cuddling on the sofa was an easy way to relax.

John thoroughly enjoyed sex with Sherlock. It was pleasing, and it was the best sex he'd ever had. Sherlock's perfectly smooth body, tanned and soft, clashed amazingly well with John's marred, toughened body. They fit together like two puzzle pieces, and John had never felt so much love for one person before.

During the days, they'd walk along the sandy beaches, hand in hand, the salty waves gliding over their feet, splashing their clothes. Or maybe they'd just sit in the beach house and watch a DVD, or go into the village, and make use of one of the restaurants.

The evenings were mainly based around sex. Two nights of senseless shagging in a row, then one of sleeping, cuddling and kissing. John had discovered ways to make Sherlock completely melt in bed, and to actually act human. Sherlock had found ways to make John scream Sherlock's name at the top of his lungs.

John wasn't sure if he liked kissing or shagging Sherlock more. Hard decision. Not that it mattered; he could do both at once.

Two weeks they spent on the island. Two, long weeks, filled with love and affection. Then the boat came to collect them, and they waved goodbye to the mysterious island, before departing back to gloomy England.

The boat journey was tough for Sherlock, who had bad seasickness. John sighed, and stroked his hair as he threw up what little food he had in his stomach over the side of the boat.

It killed John to see Sherlock like that; weak, shivering, his face tinged green. When they got to land, Sherlock clambered off of the boat, gasping. They were taken back to Baker St. by various cabs and buses, holding hands cheerily.

They were welcomed home by , and Lestrade, who looked genuinely happy to see them. Lestrade gave Sherlock several cases to get started on, and put the kettle on.

Things couldn't be better.


	6. Children

The next major decision John and Sherlock had to make was deciding on whether or not they were going to have a child.

John, of course, was eager, and ready to become a father. Sherlock was slightly less eager, claiming that a child would hinder his work, and distract him.

John protested, trying to convince Sherlock with tales of love and happiness. This made Sherlock half-decide, but Mycroft did the rest.

Mycroft had never had children, and never could. He simply couldn't. Physically couldn't. He and Sherlock met up, and Mycroft persuaded his younger brother to have a child, begging him, pleading with him.

Mycroft swore he'd never adopt, as the Holmes gene needed passing on. John and Sherlock were going to have a carrier mother.

They decided late one night, curled up on the sofa, when Sherlock made his decision. They spent the rest of the night celebrating.

The next day, however, another problem arose. Who would be the carrier mother, and who's genes would be passed on?

That was easy; Sherlock's. He was far cleverer, and his family history was colourful, and successful in general. Now, the carrier?

John suggested just a regular woman who was willing. Sherlock felt disgusted at the idea of some stranger carrying their child, and the idea was dismissed quickly.

Sherlock wanted the impossible; a child with both John and Sherlock in it. John would've loved that too, but It was clearly impossible.

Then Sherlock's brilliant mind hatched an idea; what if Harry carried their child? After all, she was just a female version of John. If she was stone cold sober before and throughout the pregnancy...

Harry agreed. John was expecting it to be difficult, but she agreed almost instantly, reassuring Sherlock and John she wouldn't drink before or during the pregnancy.

The pregnancy was smooth and easy, and nine months and two weeks since their decision, Jasper Harry Watson-Holmes was born.

Jasper after Sherlock's father, Harry after John's sister, with both their last names. John and Sherlock kept both their surnames, as they couldn't decide on which one to keep.

John hadn't really seen Sherlock cry, until the day when Jasper was born. Sherlock had been right; Jasper was a perfect mix of the two of them. And he was beautiful.

Jasper's birthdays were always huge events. Mycroft always took the opportunity to show off how much money he really had.

Jasper was a fast-developing child, much brighter than any child of his age. He had John's sandy, shaggy hair, and Sherlock's high cheekbones and piercing eyes.

He'd already learned the alphabet by the age of three, and Sherlock was teaching him numbers; adding and subtracting.

John was genuinely shocked at how quickly Jasper was progressing.

Jasper was also apt at speaking, and he could say several full sentences, and an awful lot of complicated words. John did not think children were capable of such feats of knowledge, and then he remembered who his father was.

By the time he was six, he knew all of his times-tables, and could speak in fluent English, with impeccable grammar. He could also write well, and had the same, slanting spike as Sherlock.

He'd also started accompanying crime scenes with his parents, something that John disapproved of at first. They then realised that Jasper had a knack for deducing, like his father.

Jasper had the playful, laid-back attitude that John had, but, if presented with a problem or something which required mental work, he would become as focused as Sherlock.

All in all, he was the best mixture of both his fathers, and they loved him so very much.


	7. Moving On

Jasper had gone to university a lot earlier than he should have. Sherlock was ecstatic. John was worried. Worried that his son would be bullied for his intelligence.

Jasper, however, had never been so happy. He'd begun to get bored of school when he was 13, and had been begging for university or college or something.

He went to sixth form when he was 15 and had soon surpassed all of his expectations, his IQ bordering dangerously close to genius. John had never seen Sherlock so proud, or so happy.

He took all his exams, and passed music, chemistry, biology, maths and politics with 100%. He'd been persuaded to take politics by Mycroft, and the two sciences and maths were pressed upon him since his birth, and he chose them happily. Jasper took music to please Sherlock, and he ended up learning the violin, being damn-near as good as his father.

John felt a pang of jealousy and sadness, because he had nothing to contribute to Jasper's education. Jasper claimed otherwise, saying that John had influenced his social life, and how he acted around others.

Jasper was basically a younger version of Sherlock, but with John's manners and social skills. A good mix, they thought.

Jasper left for university two weeks after his 18th birthday. He had been gladly accepted into Oxford. John was crying when he left, holding Sherlock tightly as they waved him off. Sherlock's eyes looked a little glassy, but pride was reflected plainly on his face.

Jasper was going to be taking two courses at Oxford; chemistry and politics. He was amazing at chemistry, having had learned the periodic table by the time he was twelve. But he'd taken politics because he genuinely enjoyed it. Mycroft and Sherlock both seemed extraordinarily happy. Mycroft had made it so that he could take two courses, primarily so he could take politics.

Now Sherlock and John had the flat to themselves, they took advantage of it. They only left the flat to buy food or to do a case. Sherlock seemed contented, and John was very, very pleased.

Jasper called once a week, making sure that his parents were okay, and reassuring them that he was doing fine at Oxford. He actually said, occasionally, that it was boring for him. Sherlock laughed at this, and John soon joined in, giggling stupidly.

Jasper was happy, Sherlock was happy, John was happy. Everything was so amazing.

Everything was so good.


	8. Getting Older

Jasper left Oxford, with two degrees in his grasp. God knows how he managed to keep on top of two courses, but he'd done it.

Now was decision time; would he go into politics like his uncle, or pursue a career involving chemistry. He also had the opportunity to use music to his advantage, as Sherlock taught him the violin fluently. Jasper was also learning the piano.

John encouraged Jasper to go into politics, whereas Sherlock nudged him towards chemistry. Conflicted, he turned towards his mother, Harry. She had little advice, but recommended that he go into politics.

He accepted the advice, and went to Mycroft. He gave Jasper a job in his area, promising him glory. Sherlock was very upset; he had been looking forward to solving cases with his son.

Mycroft couldn't have been happier though, which irritated Sherlock to the point where he could hardly stand to look at his older brother. Jasper was stuck in the middle of this ongoing feud, and John found himself being Jasper's metaphorical rock.

Jasper moved away permanently. Sherlock and John were alone together for the first time in a year. They didn't do anything. John said that their 'spark' had gone. Sherlock said that metaphorical combustion did not describe their lack of sexual drive.

Truth was, they were getting old. Sherlock was thirty six when Jasper was born, and John was forty. John was nearly sixty now. In fact, it was his next birthday. Sherlock wouldn't be sixty for a while, but he still showed the effects.

Sherlock seemed to be affected by age more than John, his face gaining lines, his eyes looking tired and worn. John joked that he stopped ageing at forty. This made Sherlock laugh. But it was true. John looked as though he hadn't aged a day, except for a smattering of grey hairs across his sandy locks.

Sherlock said age defined a person. John said it just made you look old.

Jasper returned home once a month, to visit his parents. John could see a change in him.

When he left, he was a bubbly, carefree lad in his early twenties. Now, he was a strict, private man, who solely wore suits and ties. The jeans and t-shirts of the past were gone. Mycroft had made Jasper into a younger version of himself.

Sherlock was furious, John could tell. But he never showed it, just bottling up his anger. Mycroft was the smug bastard he usually was. Oh, Jasper still had some of his humour, but it was dampened.

He informed his parents that he'd found someone to 'quench his sexual and emotional desires'. Basically, he'd found a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. They didn't know which.

Jasper introduced them to Henry, grinning widely. Henry was a lovely boy, the same age as Jasper. Apparently, he worked in the same area as Jasper. Jasper was happy, so John and Sherlock were happy.

Jasper stopped visiting. After two years of monthly visits, he stopped coming. Sherlock was more upset than when Mycroft took over his son. For now he felt as though he didn't have a son.

John took up his old job as a GP, and Sherlock took a training course in working in the morgue. It was painstaking for him, but John had insisted. Molly was ecstatic; she was teaching Sherlock.

John and Sherlock would sit by the fire in 221B, thinking about 'the good old days', smiling as they remembered the day they met. The lost spark blew up into an inferno of fire that night.

Ten years since Jasper had left home for good, and John was nearing seventy years old now.

John and Sherlock returned home from Lestrade's funeral. Jasper hadn't been there, but he should've been; Lestrade was practically his uncle. Lestrade was his uncle.

Mycroft was distraught about losing Lestrade, and stopped working for nearly a month. Sherlock was also affected, having known Lestrade for half of his life. John was upset, but not at much as the two brothers, who mourned in harmony.

John finally realised just how old they were getting, and how little time they had left.


	9. Final Days

Jasper had walked out of John and Sherlock's lives, never visiting or calling, seemingly forgetful of the fact that he had parents. Mycroft was the only family he had contact with now.

John and Sherlock were now reaching their ninety's, age making it impossible for Sherlock to continue dashing off to crime scenes whenever he got bored. John could no longer work as a GP.

Sherlock's pension was heavily influenced by Mycroft, and, as a result, they had a very luxurious life, and could continue living in 221B.

Mycroft passed away four days before Sherlock's ninetieth birthday. It came as a huge shock, making Sherlock show emotion he would never have shown before. Mycroft's funeral was short, and John saw Sherlock cry. Saw him really cry, saw him pour his heart out onto John's shoulder.

Two years after Mycroft died, Sherlock was still upset. This surprised John a lot. But, then again, they had been close, whatever Sherlock had said.

John had no family left, except for Sherlock and Jasper, who were really his adopted family. Harry had died suddenly three years after Lestrade had, when she was drunk driving.

Ironic, that that was the way she went. John didn't think that Jasper even knew his mother was dead.

John was diagnosed with liver cancer when he was ninety five.

Sherlock seemed emotionless. John was just worried. How would Sherlock and Jasper cope? John knew he was going to die. It was inevitable.

He was too old for an operation, and he wanted to go peacefully. He requested euthanasia. Sherlock protested. John was adamant.

They booked the next flight to Switzerland. The last flight John would ever make.

He said goodbye to Jasper, who only found out about all this the day before John and Sherlock left. Jasper cried and sobbed like he'd never turned into a duplicate of Mycroft.

John said goodbye to the flat he'd lived in for fifty years, said goodbye to his old colleagues, to the still alive members of Scotland Yard... said goodbye to everything.

They boarded the plane. Sherlock never let go of John's hand. They kissed whenever they could, hugged at every moment. Sherlock tried to hide his tears, and failed.

John could feel his death approaching him like a storm cloud, and he memorised every detail of everything he saw, felt, heard, smelt...

He wouldn't forget a thing.

John lay on the soft, white bed, utterly and completely relaxed.

He could see the nurses in the corner preparing something, and he shut his eyes briefly, counting every breath as it entered and left his lungs.

Sherlock was sat in a chair next to John, tears tumbling down his face as seconds passed, John mere minutes away from his death. John felt relaxed, calm. He knew what was coming. He'd chosen to go this way.

Sherlock seemed unstable, confused, disoriented. He refused to look away from John, and never released his firm grip on his hand. Sherlock would be the last thing John would see.

The nurse came over, and told John it was time. John nodded, and looked into Sherlock's eyes, his shining, tearful eyes. He felt the cold but surprisingly gentle prick of the needle into his skin, and he felt the warmth spreading through his veins.

Sherlock's hand squeezed John's tighter and tighter with every passing second, and he leant over to kiss John. It was a swift, gentle kiss, but it lingered on John's lips as he felt his eyes start to close, and his breathing rate decrease.

His heart started to slow down, and he held Sherlock's gaze, desperately trying to keep his eyes open. There was a moment of silence, only the beeping of the machines and the rasp of Sherlock's breath penetrating it.

_"I don't want you to go."_

John heard Sherlock utter those six, meaningful words into his ear, and his eyes finally closed.

The last thing he saw was Sherlock.

The last thing his felt was Sherlock.

The last thing he smelt was Sherlock.

The last thing he heard was Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes was the last thing John Watson ever had.

And then his world went dark.


End file.
